


Sometimes

by emotionalsymphony



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Close Friendship to Romance, Emotional Comfort, Feels, Fluff, Frustration, Gen, Gender Neutral, Happy Ending, Nightmares, One-Shot, PTSD, Self-Loathing, Slice of Life, So is reader, Strong Language, Trauma, both fight for strength, genji is heartbroken by this, reader gets into accident, reader loses sight, road to recovery, sleepy Genji is a more subdued genji, trigger-warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsymphony/pseuds/emotionalsymphony
Summary: Your lids shut with a downpour of wails, fingers blindly running across the surface of cybernetic plating, “I hate this,” You scream into the metal, forehead pressed firmly against his chest, “I hate this so much,”





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to all the survivors and the fighters of both mental and physical illnesses : ) I tried to research as much as I could about PTSD (and being visually impaired) to accurately describe the reader's emotions, so I apologize in advance if my depictions aren't correct. Enjoy the piece! It's extra salted.

Sometimes, being blind wasn’t the worst part.

**_“Agent, I want you to tell me what you see,”_ **

**_“I can’t—”_ **

Sometimes, it was the nightmares.

**_“Agent... please. It is pertinent that we record how much the nanobots salvaged from your accident.”_ **

**_“This is not—this is a mistake, Angela, I can’t—”_ **

And it does hurts to know,

**_“Agent.”_ **

That the only time you’re permitted to see,

**_Choked sobs. Gritted teeth. Panic._ **

Is pillaged by an even greater darkness.

**_“Nothing, I see nothing. Angela I can’t see, I can’t see. Angela—”_ **

You feel yourself sit up on autopilot, shards of a haunted memory (so awfully clear) gnawing at your withered conscience. At the peak of anxiety, hands spring up towards nothingness, groping and pulling for any leverage of reality. You can almost feel the pain, almost feel the descending pressure of a flight failed. It’s not real, you insist, but in the dead night of Gibraltar, you still hear the distant wailing of an alarm.

Mayday, mayday they scream.

And you plunge. Into anger, into desolation, into emptiness.

Into the sea.

“It’s not real, not real.” You whisper a mantra under your breath, flailing to untangle your limbs from the vice grip of tousled blankets. Air. You needed air. In the high of your adrenaline, you forget that the pitch black that surrounded you was not caused by an unused bulb or a brown-out, but by your disability. Nevertheless, you’re reminded of that not long after you stumble out of your bed, pathetically reaching to slap the switch of your lamppost. You know you hit it, you know you did. Though when darkness persisted and light failed to flood through the caverns of the stark night, you remember it all.

You remember it all and the anxiety in your heart stills.

You were blind—and you _forgot._

Suddenly everything felt heavier, instead of panic, sorrow pulls your chest at the dawn of realization. Amidst the prospect of a nail-biting truth, you feel your emotions sag with a burden. This darkness was going to have be a welcome scenery soon.

You proceed to feel around the area, tentatively patting and caressing to assess your situation: On the floor, off the bed, next to lamppost. You also noticed that it was hotter than usual, but that easily could have just been because of your heart racing. “Athena!” Calls your shaky voice, “Athena, I need assistance,”

No response.

“Athena?”

Silence.

You manage to frown in your disheveled state, “Requesting for Athena.”

Nothing.

This explains the hot air then. You curse. Though Overwatch was climbing to its once fallen power, Watchpoint: Gibraltar remained a fixer upper at best. Winston had to worry about power conservation, food supply, bills other necessities etc. etc. He had small teams working on it, including yourself, (or used to at least) but generator mishaps were always an inevitable encounter. This just so happened to be one of those.

The universe ought to fix its timing.

You release a shaky breath and nervously flex your fingers. This was fine, you could do this. All you had to do was get up, crawl to bed, go to sleep and pray for no more rising nightmares. Simple (save for the latter part.) Heaving a breath of bravery, you grasp tightly onto the wooden edge of your tableside and grapple for support, huffing as you hoist yourself up into an oddly angled squat. Progress, you think. Now, just stand up. A palm reaches for another guiding grasp on the furniture, but miscalculation befalls you and your hand is greeted by blank nothingness.

You gasp.

It happens in a swift motion. Without the aid of support, you’re slipping within seconds, nose bridge banging harshly against the hard edge. Pain automatically ripples through your nerves as you crumple down to the floor with a loud shout, clutching your bruising skin in agony. “Damnit, damnit,” Cusses come out like sing-song, loaded by the warm substance that began trickle down your chin. The hairs on your nape stand up at the metallic taste, flashes of head-pounding memories surging like wildfire through your system. “Oh, no, no, not blood.” You whimper, torn by the pain in your nostrils and the fear thriving in your bosom. You scramble to sit up with the panicked query of what to do.

You move to swipe at the red lingering under your nostrils, yelping when your efforts merely end up pushing against your injury, “Fuck! Come on!” You choke out, slamming a fist into the metal floor. Couldn’t you do anything without fucking up? Tears began to well up behind your eyelids, but for some reason, they do not fall.

And in the middle of your raging emotions, your front door slides open, swatting your thoughts into oblivion. You stare up at the disturbance, head whipping in various directions, “Who’s there?” You almost say, but your questions were already answered by a familiar, cybernetic expression. Genji calls your name at the sight, swiftly sheathing his katana into its holster. With the lack of light, and a half-charged visor, he can only make out a blurry line of your form. Crouched. On the floor.

In a second, he’s there by your side, moving with practice. The man places a tender hand on your shoulders, asking carefully but urgently, “What happened?”

Slowly, you remove your hands, uncovering the bloodied condition of your nose.

 _“Kuso,”_ He hisses in surprise, eyes adjusting to your predicament. “It looks badly injured,” He comments aloud, “Where did you get this?”

You felt pathetic having to explain everything, from the light switch, to the table mistake. You skip the nightmare however, and as much as you’d like to believe he took the bait, some part of you just knew that he didn’t. Contrary to popular belief, Genji Shimada was no idiot. He saw how you flinched at the sound of clattering silverware, how you recoiled at the mention of flying, how detached you’ve grown in the center of your emotional battle. The Shimada would admit that he wasn’t as adept as his brother, but he can tell why you scream at night or why there are tear stains on your lashes in the morning.

Mainly because, a long time ago, he was no different.

“Try not to prod at it any further,” The cyborg instructs, prying your wrist away to inspect the damage. Your nose was swelling with color, there were the blues and the purples, and the red that slipped through the creases of your skin, crusting and spilling all the same. The outcome was a mess. If it wasn’t for years of seasoned battle, the Shimada would’ve grimaced. He rises slowly from his seated position, speaking while so, “First we have to stop the bleeding, wait here,” The humming warmth of his body buzzes away, “Where are you going?” You wish you blurted out, hand outstretched in the slightest, but no words slip out. The sentence dies in your throat.

To replace his brief absence, you focus on the sound of a running tap, its water trickling and sloshing against marble.

He was in the bathroom.

After a few agonizing seconds, the padding of his footsteps drew nearer and you could feel that warmth radiate once again. He crouches down, “I used one of the hand towels in the refresher and soaked it in warm water,” Genji pauses, “Forgive me, this may sting.” Tentatively, he dabs the warm cloth at your wounds, cleaning off the crisp crimson liquid with its fibers. True enough, it did sting. You hiss at the pain, palm twitching to compensate for the prickly sensation. Your fingers fumble, tapping rapidly in your tolerance. The man glances down, eyes softening with silent empathy. Still busying himself with cleaning you up, Genji slowly rests his free palm atop yours, effectively subduing your ministrations. It should have been awkward, if it weren’t for your close friendship.

The cyborg offers a clement squeeze, its pressure affectionate and persuading, “It is just a moment longer,” He reassures you.

His cooing makes you grimace. You felt lower than earth. Two months has passed since that pain-wrenching mission and you are still yet to adjust to your new condition. Calling it ‘frustrating’ was an understatement. All the simple things in life have spiraled down to difficulty: stepping out of bed, dressing up, walking, working, eating. There always had to be someone assisting you, somebody to tell you that occasional, “No, that’s the spoon, darlin’.” or “Kid, you sure going to work’s the best option?” maybe a, “Love, you’re going to fall that way!” then the, “Agent, I think you should stay out of the lab for now,” And, “You skipped your appointment.” And, “That is my bow.” And, “Hey, look at—oh—sorry…” And, and—and it was pathetic _._ You were pathetic. You’ve lost count of how many rotations you’ve had this month. Assassins, ex-assassins, bounty hunters, doctors, all going out of their way to help you and your liability. You were dead weight. In fact, you often wondered why Overwatch was still keeping you around.

_You can’t even take care of a damn nosebleed._

“Hai,” The Shimada says with an air of finality, drawing you to the present, “All finished.” The cloth, however, doesn’t get drawn away. It remains firm against your skin, held still by Genji’s mechanical fingers, “Keep it there, it’s important to apply pressure to the bleeding,”

“I know.” You whisper quietly.

There’s no reply.

He’d be lying if he said the bitterness in your tone wasn’t disheartening. Genji wasn’t used to this. Normally, you were so chipper, so bright. Now that joy is replaced by a hollowness that felt incredibly alien on your person. It all died with your sight, he thinks sadly. The agent restrains his sorrow. Strength is what you needed from him, not this.

He inhales and guides your hand to the wet towel, “But I think you still need ice,” Genji releases his hold, observing as you struggled to push the cloth in a proper position, “We can go to the clinic, I am sure that Angela—”

Instantly, you upright yourself, “No!” You protest, somewhat startling the other. The cyborg blinks once from behind his mask. “You…are not serious, right?” He bristles his touch against the skin of your wrist, baring nothing but genuine concern, “You are hurt.”

You wince at the contact, pulling away from his caring gesture with a grimace, “Genji, no, just—”

 “—just stop.”

A silence, tense and heavy in nature, begins to hang like dead meat.

Your throat suddenly dries at the implication of your sentence, and you can feel the resolve in your blood weaken by a fraction. The action was akin to a slap in the face. Worst part is that you couldn’t even _see his face_. You’d never how he’d react till he voices something. Sure, even if you could see, he’d still have his mask on. But there were other micro expressions that hinted at his emotions, and they all pointed to something that you’ll never get to decipher, not when you were blind.

His disposition remained unclear. Genji wonders if this is what his comrades had endured when he too was in his own crisis. You were like thin ice, grasping for protection under the pressure of thin blades and the sun, holding and waiting till you just shattered. Till you were gone. The man would wait for no such day.

He is the first to break the silence, and he does so with care, "Do not feel ashamed of yourself, it's a minor mistake."

You respond sourly,"Yeah, well, what's new," 

A palm bristles against your knee, and Genji hinders a sigh, "We...cannot pretend like this anymore," His words are without disdain, “It's always healthier to talk about things. I don’t wish for you to be upset.”  

Your shoulders slump as irritation begins its growth, “I’m not upset,” You spit out, nearly cringing at the amount of falsity in your claim. The weight of his stare almost makes you see it. Scowling, you roar up again, venomous in tone, “Listen, I’m not gonna’ wake Angela up in the middle of the night just to bother her with my problems, okay? Just because I couldn’t fucking fix my nosebleed.”  

The cyborg repeats your name. That wasn’t the point. Nonetheless you keep seething, “I already woke you up, I don’t want to bother everyone else as it is,” 

He reaches to hold you, “Please, do not talk as if you’re some burden,” In a move quicker than lighting, the bloodied towel in your hand comes flying, landing harshly against the floor with a loud squelch. 

You’ve had enough. 

“Then what the fuck am I, huh?” You growl, anger baring a sliver of your snarling teeth. Genji tilts back slightly at the unanticipated movement, looking down at the desolated countenance of your face. Your eyes were a scarred, murky white. It’s pupils still and lifeless. Hot, burning anger churned within you, bending and snapping like fire against your chest. You clench a fist, frame trembling with rage and sorrow.  

“Genji, I’m blind, I’m mentally unstable. I can’t walk without help from an AI, I can’t eat without someone spoon feeding me like a baby! I can’t take a bath without privacy, I can’t stand up without bashing my nose against the fucking bedside table, I can’t even sleep without a nightmare of the plane crash. Everything just gets harder, Genji. It gets harder and harder, harder to breathe, harder to wake up,” Reluctantly, your lips begin to quake and your nose scrunches with that familiar, nauseating feeling of crying, _“So what the fuck am I if not a fucking burden!”_  

That’s all it took.  All it took to have everything, ever pent-up emotion, every restrained tear to come pouring out like rain. Uncontrollable sobs begin to wrack your body, hot streams of salt shed off fluttering lashes and heavy eyelids. Genji can’t help but feel his world crumble at the sight of your lost, crying form. Blood and tears alike, meshed in the beauty of your face. The agony. The wrath.  

It all looks too familiar. He’s seen it in the mirror one too many times before. 

Genji does all he knows he could. The cyborg kneels to the floor and inches closely to your person, pulling you warmly into an embrace.  

There’s a growing cavity in your chest that ached to be filled.  

A chasm that wished to be connected to the basis of land.  

And when you succumb to the ambient whirring of his machinery, you feel that you forget about the dark emptiness and fall into the reassurance of his hold. Your lids shut with a downpour of wails, fingers blindly running across the surface of cybernetic plating, “I hate this,” You scream into the metal, forehead pressed firmly against his chest, “I hate this so much,”  

His hold tightens. His heart clenches.

The world you have come to admire and fought to improve was now a blank screen of nothingness. You won’t be able to see the sunset or the sunrise, wouldn’t be able to draw or work. Wouldn’t be able to see your friends laugh, wouldn’t be able to see Hana’s victory face when she gets a high score, wouldn’t be able to see McCree’s infamous Deadeye, wouldn’t be able to see Captain Amari’s motherly smile, wouldn’t be able to see Hanzo’s twin dragons spring from his bow, wouldn’t be able to see the blue of Reinhardt’s shield or the blinking flash of Lena’s chronal accelerator.  

“I won’t,” You begin to choke out, adding in a shaky whisper, “Won’t be able to see you.”  

Him. Genji Shimada. 

The cyborg looks down at that, stiffening in the slightest. Your grip around him merely strengthens. _The anchor to reality._ Hesitantly, you continue your broken dialogue, not minding the burn of his smitten gaze, “I won’t be able to see the green light of your visor or your glowing katana,” You sniffle, “I won’t be able to see how you stare in awe of the stars when we go out, I won’t be able to see how your valves dispense steam whenever you’re flustered or how your machines grow just a bit brighter when you’re happy.” A sob, “I won’t get to see Hanamura when you said you’d take me there.” You ramble out, water choking your words into a garble of grief. You don’t know it, but his breath begins to hitch and a portion within him sways at your misery. Seeing you like this…  

He’s decided.  

Genji raises an arm to his face plate, exhales his fear and pain, then clicks the latches. A long, dragging ‘hiss’ of gas cuts through the air and the world narrows to the very second his mask thuds to the carpet. For a moment, you simply stop, ragged breaths occupying soaked wails. He senses your ticking hesitation and the uncertainty that followed. You breathe a low, empty sigh and only press your forehead harder against his chest, muttering bitterly all the while, “Genji…You know I can't--I just said--” 

“I am aware.” Genji cuts you off, sensing the rising turmoil in your chest. He places his hand to the back of your hair, fingertips moving back and forth against its scalp. He breathes in sharply before speaking, “My master once told me something when I felt…insecure about my appearance.” A pause, “Perhaps I could share it with you.” The man’s touch lingers off the tresses of your locks and descends innocently to the base of your shoulder, rubbing circles across the taut muscle, “He said, it is only through the heart that one sees clearly, what is essential is invisible to the eye,” A small smile graces his lips.  

You feel him encase his warmth around your wrist, and slowly raise it to the scarred skin of his cheeks, “In my journey, I learned that most good things are felt and not seen.”  

Your breath hitches.  

“Happiness,” Your skin runs against his, feeling every bump and scar that carved his being. “Excitement,” With each wound, you began to perceive the tiniest details about the man who existed beyond all the artificial muscle and shiny metal. “Laughter,” His lashes, the almond shape of his eyes, the chapped lips, his small nose.  As Genji speaks he looks up to your wandering expression, watching the slight quake of your mouth and the sheen of clear that glistened against your murky pupils. His soul both flutters and breaks under the shaking quality of your caresses. With a tone deeper and sincere, he whispers the last word, staring at you and you only, all the good, the bad, the ugly, the beauty and the hope stored underneath.

“Love.” 

He merely wipes your morose away, “We are here for you, that is that.”  In the precise timing of the universe, the generator rears to life and a calm, serene blue dimly lights up from the corners. It illuminates the reality of your form like no other. He speaks, firm and true, “So, do not say that you are a burden.” For he loved you, and wanted no suffering to ever befall you. Those tears. Again. They fall, quieter and more subdued.

Your head hangs low as sobs thrummed through your skin, electrifying your nerves. And with your hands cupped against his cold, worn skin, you feel a humbling trickle of tears slick past the pads of your thumbs. (They were not yours) Gently, Genji pulls you back into the embrace, holding you in a quiet gesture of council. You cry, surrendering to acceptance, to love and hope in the promise of his arms. “I’m sorry,” You repeat. _I’ll try. I’ll be stronger._  

“Don’t be,” He whispers into your skin. 

Though there was darkness. The night. The black screen. A new _feeling_ arises and shakes a broken part of you to life. Even if you could never lay eyes upon the dearest parts of your story, you will still hear the most sensational of experiences, taste the most flavor bursting delicacies. You would not see the lanterns of Hanamura but you will smell its cherry blossoms. You would not see the green light of Genji’s dragons but you will hear them roar and battle against the trials of life. Sometimes being blind wasn’t the worst part. Sometimes it was the nightmares. But you wake up.

 

You live.  

 

And though you cannot see.  

 

You feel.  

 

Maybe, you think, maybe that’s the best part.   

 

 _“Ai shiteru,”_ He whispers.

 

Yes. It is.                         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I accept critique, comments and especially those kudos ; ) Bless!


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